Vega Enterprises at 11:03 PM was a different building.
Security lights. Empty halls. The hum of AC and nothing else.
Floor 27 had one desk lit.
Katrina's.
Three monitors. Mexico City spreadsheets on all of them. 2019, 2020, 2021. The years before she got here. The years Daniel Shaw called "unorganized."
He meant "I didn't do it."
She was on her fourth coffee. Mug said _World's Okayest Accountant._ Sofia gave it to her Week 1. Joke, but not.
Wednesday deadline. 32 hours left.
She could do it. She had to do it.
_"You gave you what you earned,"_ he said.
Punishment or test. Both felt the same at midnight.
Her phone buzzed.
*Sofia:* Shaw's desk is clear. HR moved him to Auditing, 3rd floor. He asked about you.
Katrina didn't reply. Rule #1 at work: don't engage.
She clicked Column X. The formula was wrong. Again. 2019 had three different versions. None of them matched the bank.
She rubbed her eyes. Numbers blurred.
_Save it to the blood._
12:47 AM
The East Wing was dark.
Alexandra stood at the glass wall. No suit. Black shirt. Watching the city.
His phone lit up. Security.
Security West Wing light on. Floor 27. Hale-Vega. Still here.
He didn't reply. Put the phone down.
Picked it up again.
Security Do you want me to –
A.V. No.
He knew she was there. He'd known at 9PM when he left 51. Her car was still in the garage.
"It doesn't say you're my ghost."
He'd said that. Then left.
Now it was 12:47 AM and she was still a ghost on Floor 27.
He grabbed his keys.
1:19 AM
The elevator to 27 required a keycard after 10PM.
Katrina didn't hear it ding.
She heard the footsteps.
Same as Sunday night. Same as the hall outside West Wing. Measured. Deliberate.
She didn't look up. "Security does rounds at 2."
"This isn't security."
Her head snapped up.
Alexandra Vega stood in the entrance to Accounting. No blazer. Sleeves rolled. Mask on. The one he wore to work.
"Mr. Vega," she said. Voice hoarse. "You can't –"
"Building's mine," he said. "I can."
He walked to her cubicle. Didn't sit. Looked at her screens. 2019. 2020. 2021. Red cells everywhere.
"Progress?"
"Behind," she admitted. No point lying. He'd see it. "2019 is… bad. Three people touched it. None of them finished."
He nodded once. "Show me."
"Show you?"
"Line 14."
She froze. The transfer form. Monday.
He remembered.
She clicked to the 2019 tab. Scrolled. "Here. And here. And here. The carry formula breaks after Q2. They were doing it by hand. Wrong."
He leaned in. Didn't touch her. Didn't touch the desk. Six inches away, but the air changed.
He read. Fast.
"Who ran 2019?"
"Shaw. Before his promotion."
His jaw ticked. "Of course."
Silence. Just keyboard clicks. Hers.
"You should go home," he said.
"Wednesday deadline."
"You'll miss things tired."
"I'll miss more if I leave."
He stared at her. For once, no answer.
Then he pulled out his phone. Typed. Put it away.
Two minutes later, the lights on Floor 27 got brighter. Night cleaning cancelled. AC kicked up.
He turned to leave.
"Alexandra."
He stopped. First time she'd used his name. Not Mr. Vega. Not sir.
She didn't repeat it. "Why did you move him?"
He didn't turn around. "Vega Enterprises doesn't do incompetence."
"No," she said. "Why did you move him _today._ You could've waited. Made it quiet. HR on Friday. No scene."
Now he turned. Eyes cold.
"Because," he said, "you've been waiting your whole life for someone to choose you over quiet."
The air left the floor.
He left before she could breathe back in.
4:06 AM
Katrina's head hit the desk. Just for a second.
She woke to a blazer over her shoulders.
His.
It smelled like cedar and money and Sunday night.
On her desk: coffee. Black. No sugar. A Post-it note.
_6AM. Go home. Sleep. 9AM start. – A.V._
Not a request.
Under it, a second note. Her handwriting from Monday: _Sorry for error._
Crossed out. In his writing: _No. You weren't._
She stared at it.
_Save it to the blood._
6:03 AM
West Wing was quiet when she got back.
East Wing door shut.
She showered. Changed. Set an alarm for 8:30 AM.
At 8:29 AM, a knock.
She opened the door.
Alexandra. Suit. Mask on. Holding a folder.
"Mexico City," he said. Handed it over. "2019 bank statements. Originals. Sofia pulled them at 5AM."
"You didn't sleep."
"Neither did you."
He looked at her. Dark circles. Blazer from last night still on her chair. His blazer.
"9AM," he said. "My office. We're reviewing together. Rule #5 suspended for today."
"That's not –"
"Contract says you're my employee," he cut in. "Employees don't miss deadlines because their CEO let them drown."
He left.
Katrina looked at the folder. 2019. Originals. The thing she needed to finish.
_You've been waiting your whole life for someone to choose you over quiet._
Wednesday deadline. 24 hours left.
Tolerable .